


Swift and beautiful for thee.

by allrounderinsane



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 01:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16844077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allrounderinsane/pseuds/allrounderinsane
Summary: Tim’s earliest memories are of Tasmania, and of cricket, summer days placated by the breeze of the Derwent and the smacks of his older brothers’ bowling being dispatched off the blade of his taped-up, borrowed bat. His sisters were often present at the crease, the presence of the youngest Paine boy best appreciated behind the stumps, where unloved wicketkeeping gloves become his treasured own.





	Swift and beautiful for thee.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celebel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celebel/gifts).



> This is a work of fiction, specifically an alternate universe work. Within this story, Australian cricketers Tim Paine and Georgia Redmayne are cousins (this is not true) and come from a family background of religious fundamentalism. Details have been sculpted for the purposes of fiction and I'm more than happy to discuss this work with anyone who would seek benefit from it. The title of this story comes from one of my favourite hymns, 'Take my Life and Let It Be.' 
> 
> Thanks to Sunshine for being my constant cheerleader.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Hobart, 1988**

Tim’s earliest memories are of Tasmania, and of cricket, summer days placated by the breeze of the Derwent and the smacks of his older brothers’ bowling being dispatched off the blade of his taped-up, borrowed bat. His sisters were often present at the crease, the presence of the youngest Paine boy best appreciated behind the stumps, where unloved wicketkeeping gloves become his treasured own. It’s in the early weeks of 1988, during the lull between tours by New Zealand and England, that play is briefly suspended in the continuous match of street cricket in Lauderdale, the five children of number thirty-six trailing the bouncing of their mother’s shoulder pads to visit the Wade family home.

“Now, Timothy, you must be nice and quiet when we go inside,” his mother requests.

Tim nods obediently, but Meagan grasps his hand just before Mr. Wade allows them inside. Mrs. Wade is seated on the floral print lounge, cradling baby Matthew, swaddled in a blanket.

“Babies are bigger than footies,” Tim remarks, peering with wide blue eyes.

He’s the youngest; without a sibling for comparison. A ripple of laughter goes around the living room.

“Not by much, young fella,” Mr. Wade chimes in, smiling at Tim.

+

**Hobart, 1989**

It’s Tim’s final year before starting school, when he braves the darkness of his bedroom, to press his ear against the paper-thin walls and listen to the radio broadcast of the Ashes Test matches in England, from his parents’ bedroom. As the winter nights pass by, he imagines in his mind the on-field exploits of Border’s cream-clothed Australians. Tasmania’s own Greg Campbell makes his Test debut at Leeds; only to be dropped for Trevor Hohns for the second match at Lord’s, a decision that leaves Tim’s mother muttering about anti-Tasmanian conspiracies. Unlike Timothy David, though, the first and the last of the Paine children to be born in Hobart, she’s not a native of the Apple Isle, neither his is father.

Both had been born, raised and married in New South Wales. It was only upon the passing of his grandfather in mid-1984 that brave Elizabeth took off. Her daughter followed, with her husband, four children and another expected. The newlywed Wades had been amongst their first companions. Tasmania presented an opportunity for a new and better life, so no wonder his mother loved the place. Tim knows no different, not that he wants to, even if he’d unknowingly has to give up on enough cousins to fill a number of cricket teams. The other choice is to be growing up on the outskirts of Alstonville, where radios themselves have been frowned upon, for bringing the dangerous outside world.

Cricket from England, as quaint as it seems, also falls into that category. Tim wriggles in bed, to pull the blankets in close to him like a cocoon. The nights roll on, as do the broadcasts, towards a rain-impacted draw in Birmingham and, finally, an Ashes-regaining victory on the hallowed turf of Old Trafford in Manchester. Tim cheers out loud, when Tasmania’s own David Boon sweeps the ball to the boundary for the winning runs, then sinks in under the covers, remembering that he’s supposed to be long asleep. It doesn’t take long for him to hear the creak of footsteps, from his parents’ bedroom to his own. Tim’s eyes shut, pretending to be asleep, as somebody enters his room.

He flinches as the edge of the bed bows, his eyes coming open.

“Were you listening, Tim?” Tim’s mother enquires, beaming.

Cheeks a little reddened, he nods in confession. Tim is thankful that his mother’s face doesn’t fall.

“It’s very exciting, isn’t it?” she remarks.

Tim nods again.

“Mum, when I’m older, do you think that I could get to play cricket for Australia?” he queries.

Tim’s mother doesn’t laugh at him, which is all the answer he needs.

“Of course you can,” she permits, like it’ll be the easiest thing in the world.

When Tim finally goes to sleep, he dreams of it, and starts to believe that that’s what his parents meant when they left for Tasmania for a better life.

+

**Hobart, 1990**

It’s late summer and the hottest week of the year, high-thirties Celsius, even in Hobart. Weighed down by his backpack, Tim steps out onto the front porch. He places his broad-brimmed hat onto his head, to shield his face from the sun. Tim’s fresh school uniform is black with a pale blue trim, adorned with a swan emblem. His first day at Lauderdale Primary School, and his mother with her camera, are in front of him. Meagan wraps her arm around his shoulders. Tim’s older sister yells him how glad she is to have her littlest brother finally with her at school.

“All five Paines,” Tim points out, “all going to big school.”

“That’s right,” his mother confirms, before all the children come together outside their house, so that she can snap a picture. “Lovely, lovely.”

She fiddles with the camera, which gives Tim the opportunity to wander away. He’s gripping on the straps of his backpack. It’s heavier than Tim’s used to carrying, given that it’s filled with his lunchbox and his pencil case, full of textas for colouring. Yet, he’s willing, because he’s desperately ready for school, desperately ready to follow in the footsteps of his younger siblings.

“Ah, Timothy David,” his father remarks, standing at the end of the driveway. “Our little boy. Off to big school. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Tim knows what his father means, but not entirely. His parents didn’t go to school, at least not outside of their dining rooms.

“Alright,” his mother announces with enthusiasm. “I’ve worked out the self-timer function. We can have a family picture altogether.”

“Do we have to, Mum?” Tim complains.

“Oh, Tim,” his mother replies, “are you too grownup for photos already?”

He takes his hands off the straps of his backpack. Tim places them into his pockets as he walks back down the driveway, deliberating crossing over his feet. Halfway down, on the crack that his older siblings use for swing, he stumbles, but doesn’t trip. Meagan reaches out, but doesn’t have to catch up. A little startled, Tim quickens his pace and joins his siblings in a line for another photograph.


End file.
